


Octo-Hugs and Kisses

by cuddlesome



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Banter, Bi-Curiosity, Dubious Consentacles, Humiliation, M/M, Other, Rough Kissing, Strangulation, Technological Kink, dang it there isn't a tag for a technological tentacle getting shoved in someone's mouth, don't ask me where this takes place in canon because I don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 21:39:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16542776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlesome/pseuds/cuddlesome
Summary: Doctor Octopus doesn't seem especially interested in killing Spider-Man at the moment.





	Octo-Hugs and Kisses

Spider-Man awakens to the sound of his webshooters being crushed to bits. The next thing he’s aware of is that arms and legs are pinned in a vice by two of Doctor Octopus’ tentacles. A third grips the back of his head, keeping him facing forward and staring at his foe as he blinks back into awareness. The fourth hovers over the doctor’s shoulder, clicking and hissing in his ear.

 

“Good morning,” Octavius says despite it being around 3 AM by Spider-Man’s estimation.

 

Octavius looks away from him for a moment to converse with a tentacle, because that’s just the sort of life Peter is living.

 

“You’re right,” Octavius says to his mechanical arm in a tone so overflowing with sickly-sweet affection Spider-Man half expects him to kiss it.

 

He turns his attention back to Spider-Man. “We feel as though your glorified rag is an unnecessary barrier between us, Mr. Parker.”

 

Spider-Man’s mask is rent from his face with a careless tug from the tentacle that had been holding the back of his head. No sooner is Peter’s face revealed than the same tentacle tip traces a path over his bare cheek.

 

Octavius hums. “Yes, that’s it. You poor boy.”

 

The tentacle is cold on his skin. Peter shudders. Squirms. But he doesn’t struggle, not really. His strength has allowed him to break free of Octavius many times over the years, but for once he finds he doesn’t want to get away. There’s no imminent danger to civilians or the people he loves or, as far as he can tell, Peter himself.

 

He’s being way too trusting.

 

“Shouldn’t that go both ways, Doc?”

 

Octavius tilts his head.

 

Spider-Man makes his voice as condescending as he can manage. “I feel as though your glorified chips of glass are an unnecessary barrier between us, Mr. Octavius.”

 

He gets a hard squeeze and an even harder shake courtesy of the tentacles around his body. His innards feel like they’ve been forced into a too-small box.

 

Maybe there is more of a threat of bodily harm than he thought.

 

“Do not mock me,” Octavius grinds out between his teeth.

 

“Fine! Keep hiding behind your shades, that’s not the coward’s way out of looking me in the eye or anything.”

 

Spider-Man doesn’t really think that he’s going to take the bait. But then, after a moment of hesitance, the tentacle that had been hovering next to Octavius slips his prescription sunglasses off. It stretches out of Spider-Man’s view, presumably putting the glasses in a secure spot. Octavius’ eyes are gelid, but Spider-Man doesn’t notice; he’s already racing to figure out a way to use the doctor’s impaired sight to his advantage. First, he’ll need a distraction.

 

The claws of the tentacle spans Peter’s waist, squeezing just hard enough to threaten him without crushing anything vital. Peter reaches out with what limited mobility he has and brushes the tips of his fingers over the tentacle’s body. Octavius and the tentacles all simultaneously flinch and draw back, shuddering like an animal thing.

 

“What are you doing?” Octavius barks, no doubt translating for the hissing tentacle.

 

“You designed these things with a lot of delicacy, Doc. Did you ever dream they’d be wrapped around a pretty little thing like me?”

 

He’s intending to irritate him, but it backfires spectacularly. Octavius straightens and moves closer.

 

Closer. Closer. Too close!

 

Peter can feel his plan falling to pieces already. Rather than getting his attention away, Ock has gotten hyperfixated on him.

 

Octavius pulls off one of his gloves with the assistance of an actuator. “There’s something I’ve been wondering about, Spider-Man.”

 

Closer still. They’re touching, now, the bulk of Octavius’s torso brushing against Peter’s.

 

“Indulge my curiosity, won’t you?” Octavius asks, reaching up to stroke Spider-Man’s cheek with his bare fingers right alongside the tentacle tip.

 

Spider-Man’s breath hitches. It’s one thing to have the unfeeling actuator arms corseting him. It’s another to have the human body that they’re attached to in his personal space. The warm pliancy of Octavius’ fingertips make the nib of the arm feel colder and harder.

 

“If you need to be in my face to see me without your glasses, Ockie, your eyes are worse than I thought,” Peter says.

 

He’s lacking his usual snappy delivery with this quip thanks to his frayed nerves. It comes out as a croak.

 

Octavius gives him an unreadable look. His fingers touch Peter’s lips for the barest of moments, thoughtful. The tentacle follows his path and hisses. Peter is too startled to even think about biting the doctor’s hand.

 

The two tentacles that are not binding Spider-Man’s body clamp on either side of his head. They don’t increase the pressure to the point of causing pain, but the threat is there.

 

“You played all of his out just to crush my brains?”

 

Octavius stays silent, further denying Peter’s expectations that he would make some verbose speech about his intellectual superiority to entrap him this way.

 

“What’s the matter with you?” Peter asks. “Tentacle got your tongue?”

 

Octavius wraps his bare hand around Peter’s throat, a threat that’s almost laughable when there’s four mechanical arms resting nearby that could do the job of strangling him much more efficiently.

 

Then he kisses him.

 

Oh. That explains it. Peter thinks this in a detached sort of way as he registers that Octavius does not seem to be willing to go beyond a prolonged lip press, cold and unfeeling as the tentacles.

 

As if to contradict him, the actuators keeping his head in place lower to his shoulders in a mockery of an embrace. His free hand rises to Peter’s chest. Octavius seems to get his bearings; he slicks his tongue against Peter’s lower lip and then begins to suck greedily at it in a way that should be unpleasant but isn’t. It’s out of shock—it has to be—that Peter opens his mouth and lets the doctor kiss him more deeply. Peter’s eyes flutter shut, as if he could somehow forget who is making out with him when he has metal tentacles squeezing him.

 

He’s being devoured, then. The kiss gets wetter, messier. The tentacles around his body and the hand at his neck squeeze and squeeze until Peter can feel his pulse thudding hard against Otto’s grip, flesh and metal both. Is this how he’s going to go after all these years? Death by octo-hugs and kisses?

 

If he had to guess, Peter would have thought that Octavius’ mouth would taste like he’s been drinking toxic seawater to make him even crazier than before. Instead he tastes something woodsy, spicy, and something else—cigars? Yes, that has to be tobacco, that third thing. The moment he registers the taste, the scent of sweet smoke clinging to Octavius’ coat seems obvious and distinct above the smell of harbor water surrounding them.

 

And just when Peter is getting used to the contrasting combination of Octavius’ sandpapery stubble and soft, jowly cheeks against his skin, the doctor withdraws. He lets go of Peter’s throat and wipes the wet shine of excess saliva off of his mouth on the back of his hand. He’s panting with his hand still held to his mouth. He glares over his hand at Peter as if he had been the one to initiate the contact.

 

“You know,” Peter says, unable to contain a breathless laugh between his swollen lips. “Earlier you should have said ‘indulge my bi-curiosity.’”

 

Octavius’ expression pinches and he lowers his hand. “Stop laughing at me.”

 

“Listen. I understand, Doc. I’m a pretty attractive guy, but—”

 

He laughs again, which is a mistake, because without so much as a hint of warning Octavius shoves a tentacle into it. Peter’s eyes bulge in shock as his jaw is forced wide open and his lips are stretched to accommodate the intrusion. His tongue is pressed flat to the bottom of his mouth. The tentacle stops just short of his uvula, but he gags nonetheless. The bitter taste is as overwhelming as the size of the tentacle. Peter makes a small, helpless noise.

 

“I can’t stand being laughed at,” Octavius says, scrubbing his lips with the back of his hand again. “Don’t give me that look, boy. You’ve got a big mouth, you can handle it.”

 

Octavius pulls the actuator back an infinitesimal amount, then thrusts it forward again. Peter tries to keep his jaw slack so that his teeth don’t impede the tentacle’s course any more than is necessary. Octavius walks to one side while his tentacles keep Peter suspended in a state of humiliation and retrieves his glasses with his flesh-and-blood hands.

 

Dark spectacles back in place, he regards Peter. “Wonderful. You should see yourself.”

 

A tentacle twined around Peter’s arms and torso turns its muzzle towards its master.

 

_Chitter chitter. Click click click._

 

“Yes,” Octavius says as he puts his glove back on his bare hand. “Yes, you’re a clever one.”

 

Peter imagines he feels the body of the tentacle give a little shiver of delight at the praise. He hopes he’s imagining it.

 

The arm slips off of him, replaced by the one of the tentacles that had been hanging off of his shoulders. The newly-freed tentacle picks up Peter’s Spider-Man mask from the floor and turns it so the face is pointed towards him. For a moment he isn’t sure what the point of the action is. Then he catches sight of himself reflected in one of the lenses of his mask.

 

Peter sees his body pinned to the wall, wrapped in Octavius’ arms. The lean muscles on his body are swollen with strain. The spider symbol at the center of his chest grows larger before contracting again every time he heaves a breath in and out. And then there’s the main event, the sight of his lips stretched wide open to fit the fat actuator tip. A trickle of saliva arcs down from the corner of his mouth as he looks.

 

Peter shuts his eyes, mortified.

 

And then… and then the arms lower him to the ground. Peter almost falls over as his feet meet the floor and the tentacles leave him without any support. The one in his mouth is pulled out. The closed, saliva-covered muzzle rotates on its axis as it cleans itself off on Peter’s chest. He stumbles back with a sharp inhale when it brushes against one of his nipples. The tentacle moves toward him again and more deliberately flicks its tip against the nub through his costume. Peter grabs it by the body, yanking it away from him. It snaps its claws together in a transparent warning. He glowers at it, but lets it go, allowing it to return to Octavius.

 

“What…” He’s embarrassed at how hoarse he sounds. “What are you doing? You’re just going to walk away?”

 

“I made my point.”

 

“Which is?”

 

Octavius flaps a hand to one side in a dismissive gesture that one of the tentacles mimics in time. Peter shakes his head. If he had to guess, Ock’s logic dictated that he had just proved something something superior something something. Even if he did deign to explain why he didn’t just kill Spider-Man by way of jamming a spike courtesy of an actuator through his head, it would probably only make sense to another mad scientist. Peter may be a scientist, but he’s not mad. Probably. He hopes.

 

Peter leans down, lets out a wet cough, two, determines that the tentacle hadn’t gotten itself deep enough to cause him to vomit, even if he wanted to, and he really wants to. Panting, still slavering, Peter looks up at Octavius again.

 

The broad span of the doctor’s torso matches the bulk of the tentacles sprouting from the small of his back. As Peter watches, Octavius rolls his shoulders in what looks to be a habitual motion. A stray thought about whether or not Ock has back problems between his body’s ponderous weight and the additional weight of his actuators occurs to Peter, but it’s dismissed as soon as it comes to him.

 

He has other things to worry about. Namely, the sound of fabric ripping. It takes him a moment to realize what the tentacles are tearing apart in a way that seems both animalistic in ferocity and systematic in efficiency. Then he catches sight of a scrap of red fabric fluttering to the ground.

 

“Really, Ock?” Peter asks, unable to keep the edge of anger out of his voice.

 

Getting home tonight is going to be an exercise in paranoia. He’s going to have to worry about someone discovering his secret identity and put everyone he loves at risk because Octavius wanted to be petty.

 

“They wanted to do it, not me,” Octavius says, languid. “They like looking at your face.”

 

All four of the glowing ocular lenses focus on Peter as if to prove his point, the tattered remains of the Spider-Man mask hanging like bloody shreds of carnage from the actuators’ claws.

 

Octavius looks over his shoulder, one of his eyes almost-visible, obscured only by the arm of his glasses. “Perhaps we’re not done with you after all.”

 

“I’ll say you aren’t, ya fruitcake.”


End file.
